Non Timebo Mala
by Menthol Pixie
Summary: Title Translation: I Will Fear No Evil. Waking up tied to a bed is never a good thing, as Sam is about to find out. Where the heck is Dean?
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This is a two part-er, the first chapter focusing on Sam and the second on Dean, so there's something for everyone. I'm still a bit rusty with my fanfiction because I've been working on a novel for the last two years but I discovered Supernatural, fell in love (and used up all my internet allowance watching and downloading episodes) and now I can't get these stories out of my head. Enjoy.**

**Non Timebo Mala**

**Chapter One**

Dean was saying something.

Sam fought to push through the haze, trying to focus on the words but they simply washed over him, ineffectual and unfocussed.

_What…?_

Something was wrong. The realization was usually enough to jolt him into awareness, but now it was just an uncomfortable thought on the edge of nothingness.

_Where was he…?_

Sam tried to move, sit up, open his eyes, anything, but his body wouldn't obey. It's felt disconnected from him somehow. Even his eyelids stayed stubbornly shut. Something clinked above his head, metal on metal, and Sam tried to remember where he'd heard that sound before, but his thoughts were sliding from his head like water through a sieve. Nothing stuck, and even as Dean's voice moved closer, he felt his flimsy grip on consciousness slipping away.

00000000000000000

Sam woke again, head spinning and darkness tantalizingly trying to lure him back in, but Sam fought it. It was only when he groggily tried to roll onto his side that he realized that he was tied down. It took another moment for his foggy mind to remember that being tied down was very rarely a good thing.

At least his eyelids were more willing to co-operate this time. Sam inched them open slowly, unable to smother the moan that escaped as the bright light speared a fork of pain through his forehead. He let his eyelids fall shut, waiting until the pain had settled down to a dull throb before he tried again.

A little fuzzy, but he could see enough to know that he was in a motel room, and not the one he last remembered being in. The room was empty, and oddly neat. No clothes strewn about like Dean was want to do, their duffle bags were no where in sight. His laptop was absent and no lines of salt adorned the door or windows. And Dean was missing.

But Dean had been there. Sam was sure he remembered Dean's voice, so maybe things weren't quite as bad as they seemed.

Sam closed his eyes again, trying to collect his jumbled thoughts and quell the nausea that was rising in his throat. He felt… floaty, and dizzy. Opening his eyes and risking a slight tilt of his head, he finally focused on several small, bruised injection sights. His arm had been used as a pincushion, presumably for some kind of sedative.

Well, at least that explained the dancing wallpaper.

Letting his eyes travel further up his arms, which were secured above his head, he figured out the clinking noise he'd heard earlier. (_How long ago was that?)_ Handcuffs held him to the metal base of the bed, his wrists already raw from rubbing against the cool metal. He didn't think he could move his head enough to see his ankles without throwing up but a slight shift of his leg's confirmed that they too were bound to the bed.

Sinking back to stare at the ceiling – and then thinking better of it and closing his eyes when the room began to spin – Sam tried to figure out what he last remembered, frustrated when he found his memories vague and sketchy. There was a poltergeist, but he couldn't remember where or even whether Dean and himself had managed to banish it.

Or maybe that was weeks ago. Oblivion was calling insistently. Where was he again? Oh, that's right, tied to a bed in an unfamiliar motel room.

Where the heck was Dean?

0000000000000

Sam gradually became aware of the familiar rumbling of the Impala, the comforting sound bleeding from his dreams into waking. He allowed himself a moment to take in the noise, pretend that he had simply fallen asleep during another long cross-country drive with Dean.

Steeling himself, Sam slowly opened his eyes. He was slumped against the passenger door, not an unfamiliar way for him to wake up, had he not been cuffed to the door handle.

"You awake?"

Sam blinked dazedly, turning slowly towards his brother's voice. His vision cleared to reveal Dean sitting casually behind the wheel, hands rhythmically tapping along to some imagined music, eyes flicking from the road to Sam.

Sam couldn't help the relief that flowed through him. Something was obviously terribly wrong, but at least Dean was sitting next to him, seemingly unharmed.

"Dean…?" Sam managed, finding his voice scratchy from lack of use. The word came out as more of a gasp. How long had it been since he'd last talked?

Sam watched Dean's mouth turn up into a smirk

"Sorry, Sammy, guess again."

Sam felt the relief fade even as he struggled to push through the dense fog in his head. Nothing was making sense. He couldn't seem to organize his thoughts into words.

"What…?"

"You know," Dean drawled, watching the road now and shaking his head slowly, "Every time I run into you Winchester's I get more and more disappointed. It's always so _easy_."

Finally something clicked into place. Sam forced himself to sit up a little straighter.

"You're a demon," he accused.

"Yahtze," the demon grinned in a gross imitation of Dean.

"Get out of my brother," Sam spat, with as much venom as he could muster, jerking the handcuffs.

Dean blinked and black eyes glared at him.

"Sorry, Sammy, I'm just getting started.

Dean's elbow shot up and Sam had just enough time to flinch his head to the side, protecting his face from the worst of the blow, before he was plunged into darkness.

000000000000000

Sam came to as Dean – not Dean – manhandled him out of the Impala. The handcuffs had been removed but a small pressure at his lower back told him that a gun had taken their place. Not-Dean steered Sam to a door with a large metal '6' on it – another motel then – and slid a key into the lock. He pushed the door open, shoving Sam in before him.

Then the demon made a mistake.

Not-Dean flicked his eyes off of Sam for a second to lock the door behind them. A second was all Sam needed. He'd been trained by the best, he felt less drugged-up than he had in God knows how long, and if he didn't act now he'd surely end up tied to the bed again, unable to help himself or Dean.

Sam saw an opening and he took it. He spun, fast enough to catch Not-Dean by surprise, sending the gun skidding across the floor. Not-Dean barely skipped a beat, retaliating with an elbow to the face that had Sam seeing red for a moment. He blinked it away in time to dodge the next punch.

The demon's eye's flashed black, lips curled up into a snarl, and Not-Dean lashed out with an impressive kick to the chest that sent Sam flying into the wall and crashing to the ground in a heap.

Sam gasped, trying to bring air back into winded lungs, reeling from the blow. He felt a hand fist itself in his hair, dragging him to his knees. A fist slammed into his face with supernatural strength. Sam tasted blood.

Gathering himself, he shot out with a punch to the stomach – silently apologizing to Dean in his head –and forced himself back to his feet. He barely had time to steady himself before Dean lunged.

Sam ducked, knocking a lamp off of one of the bedside tables. It clattered to the ground, the light bulb shattering. Glass crunched under their feet as they sparred, blows flying, some deflected, some meeting their mark. Sam felt himself tiring. The drugs weren't completely out of his system and his vision was beginning to blur.

Sam deflected a punch, sending it wide over his shoulder, ready to throw one of his own when a fist wound itself into his hair again and pulled downwards, slamming his face into the kitchen bench, hard. Pain blinded him and he crumpled to the ground. He could feel hot, wet blood on his face, could taste the bitter metal tang.

Sam forced his eyes open, struggling to get to his feet. Dean's face loomed over him, fading in and out as the darkness threatened to overwhelm him.

"Naughty, naughty, Sammy," Not-Dean taunted.

Hands gripped Sam's arms and he was dragged over to a bed, the closest one to the door – Dean's bed. Sam fought against the sudden nausea the movement had brought on, allowing himself to be hauled onto the bed. He bit back a groan, trying to curl in on himself, to bring his hands up to his face as if it would somehow lessen the pain that had him on the verge of blacking out, but his arms were roughly pulled above his head and he heard handcuffs click into place.

He must have lost consciousness because when he opened his eyes his ankle's were bound, and Dean was sitting cross-legged on the opposite bed, watching him in glee.

Sam carefully tested his bonds.

"What do you want?" he finally asked.

Not-Dean cocked his head to the side.

"I have what I want – Sam and Dean Winchester."

Sam slowly reassessed the demon. Something about the way it walked, the way it talked as if they were old friends… The realization smacked him in the face, dread building up inside him.

"Meg?" Sam asked.

"In the flesh," Meg smirked, holding out Dean's arms as if to show off her new body. "In Dean's flesh, even."

Sam tugged defiantly at the handcuffs, ignoring the sharp twinge of pain in his wrists.

"Get out of him," he growled.

Meg just shrugged, looking down at Sam in mild amusement.

Sam glanced around the room, taking in his surroundings, looking for weapons, ready to form a plan.

He was in a motel room, hardly distinguishable from any other room he and Dean had stayed in. Musty orange wallpaper, peeling in some places, tobacco stains on the ceiling. The kitchen was barely a few feet of lino with minimal bench space, blood staining the edge of the countertop.

The broken lamp still lay on the floor next to his bed. A table and two chairs stood against the far wall.

Sam pulled his gaze further inwards, searching for something within reaching distance that he could use as a lock pick.

"You're wasting your time," Dean's voice interrupted. "You two idiots might not learn from your mistakes, but I do. There's no escape, Sammy, for either of you. I've been in the Pit, waiting and planning this. The thing's I'm gonna do to you…"

Sam ignored the threat.

"How'd you do it?" he asked, still searching surreptitiously for anything that could aid him, "The tattoo's meant to keep vermin like you out."

"Aw Sam," Meg pretended to pout, "I thought you liked me."

Sam clenched his teeth, "How?"

"The tattoo's aren't as ingenious as you no doubt thought they were," Meg said, unbuttoning Dean's shirt, "They have a major design flaw."

Meg pulled down Dean's collar, revealing the wound on Dean's chest. It looked as if Meg had slashed him with a knife, cutting clean through the protective pentagram.

A wave of anger had Sam straining at the cuff's again, "I'm gonna send you back to Hell where you belong, bitch!"

"Language, Sam," Meg admonished, wagging a patronizing finger at him, "That's more Dean's style, isn't it?"

Sam opened his mouth to snap back a retort but stopped, both his and Dean's head's turning as Dean's cell phone lit up and vibrated along the table, a computerized Iron Maiden jingle interrupting their conversation.

When Sam turned back to Meg she was already standing over him. He started slightly, jerking back a bit as she raised a roll of duct tape to Dean's mouth, tearing a strip off with his teeth. Dean's hand clamped down on his jaw with inhuman strength, forcing his head still as she fixed the duct tape over his mouth.

Assured that it was firmly in place, Meg turned her back – Dean's back – on Sam and walked over to the phone. She cleared her throat before picking it up, the jingle stopping abruptly.

"Hey Bobby," she answered in Dean's casual voice.

Sam strained against his bonds, fingers searching desperately for anything that could be used as a lock pick. If he could just get the duct tape off and yell a warning to Bobby…

Sam moved his fingers slowly up the beds backboard as far as the cuffs would allow, feeling for a splinter in the wood.

Nothing.

He could hear Dean's voice talking about a job Bobby had found in their area – something about people disappearing. Sam very much doubted that they were anywhere near the area Bobby thought they were in. He turned his attention back to the conversation when he heard Bobby's muffled voice saying his name.

"He's sleeping," Meg lied easily.

Sam strained to hear Bobby's reply. How many times had he rung in the last few days, unable to get Sam on the phone? Enough to be suspicious?

"Yeah, maybe I've been working him too hard," the demon joked lightly.

Giving up on release, Sam yelled into the duct tape, reaching up to slam his cuff's against the backboard. Anything to alert Bobby that something was wrong.

"TV," Meg explained shortly to Bobby's unheard question, "Listen Bobby, I gotta go. We'll get right on that when Sam wakes up."

Sam screamed again but it was muffled and Meg was already hanging up. Defeated, Sam sunk back against the bed.

0000000000000000

Days trickled past in a haze of drugs and pain.

Sam didn't know how long it had been since Meg had first invaded Dean's body. A week? A month? Time had no meaning and it was hard to keep track of. Whatever Meg was injecting into him sent him flying, detached from his body. Trying to think, to form a plan, was like swimming through wet cement. Half the time he couldn't remember where he was, and when he came sinking back to reality it was only his need to save Dean that stopped him from wishing that Meg would just shoot him up again.

The moments of lucidity, and the escape attempts that followed, had seen the handcuffs scrape his wrists to a bloody mess, bruised and aching where he'd tried to pull his hands through the loops.

He didn't think Meg had answered Dean's phone again since Bobby's call… however long ago that was. Sometimes Sam heard it trilling out The Number of the Beast at the edge of his consciousness, like listening underwater. Yet another downside of their job, Sam thought vaguely, no one knew where they were, no one was expecting them, and if they didn't answer their phone's, well, maybe they were just busy with a case.

A sudden burning on his arm shocked Sam back to reality and the scent of singed flesh stung his nostrils.

Meg was crushing out a cigarette on his arm. Still dizzy from the drugs, Sam fought the urge to laugh, remembering how shocked he had been the first time he saw Dean light up a smoke. Out of everything – a possessed brother, waking up tied to a bed every day, and all the countless monsters he had seen, it was Dean puffing on a cigarette that managed to take him by surprise.

Well, it was a little funny.

Sam looked up through blurry eyes. Two Meg's sat back in their chairs, crossing their legs in a very un-Dean-like manner. They were in a different motel room. Sam could make out light green wallpaper.

"What do you want?" he slurred, trying to focus.

"I told you, I have what I want," Meg grinned smugly.

"No, I mean… what are you going to do? …with us?"

Meg chewed on her cheek as if pondering the question.

"I think," she started, "I'm just going to keep doing what I'm doing until you die." She shrugged, "And then I might throw Dean out a window."

Sam glared, hoping that he was glaring at the right Dean… or Meg. Whatever.

"I'll kill you. You hurt him, I swear to God, I'll kill you," he growled, mustering his energy enough to speak clearly.

Meg stood, barking out a laugh.

"I'd like to see you, and _God_, try," she said breezily, waltzing to the door. "Don't wait up, Sammy."

As the door clicked shut behind the demon, Sam fell back against the bed, his energy draining out of him. God, his head hurt. Steeling himself, Sam began his usual inspection of the bed's headboard, carefully moving his fingers over the smooth wood, letting his thought's drift. There was no point. Meg was too smart. She never left him anything he could use to escape.

As Dean would say, this sucked out loud. He was drugged up, cold, hungry, in pain and – Ah! And now he had a splinter. Perfect.

Wait…

Sam's heart lurched. He scrabbled his fingers up the headboard again. There! Almost out of his reach, a small chip in the wood. Concentrating, Sam slowly edged his fingernails into the crack, working the splinter carefully, until…. Aha!

Sam squeezed the splinter in his fingers, desperate not to drop it, and slowly twisted his wrist around to slip it into the lock, awkwardly working it until the cuff clicked open. He made quick work of the second cuff and moved on to the ropes around his ankles. He had to be fast. He had an exorcism to organize.

00000000000000

Sam listened to the key turning in the lock, taking a deep breath to focus himself. This had to work. He couldn't afford to screw this up. Dean's life depended on it.

Sam watched the door creak open from his vantage point on the bed. He tilted his head up to check that the handcuffs were in place, concealing his freedom, then swung his eye's back to the door as Dean entered.

"Have fun while I was gone, Sammy?" Meg asked airily as she locked the door behind her.

Sam didn't answer, holding his breath as he watched her progression into the room.

"Cat got your tongue?" Meg moved towards the bed, then stopped suddenly. "What-?!"

Sam followed Meg's gaze upwards until it settled on the Devil's Trap spray painted on the ceiling. Luckily, wherever Meg had gone, she'd left the Impala in the car park, and Sam had had plenty of practice at picking the boots lock.

Meg's eye's flashed back to Sam, suddenly enraged.

"What did you do?" she seethed.

Sam pulled his wrists from the unlocked handcuffs and rolled off the bed, pulling a book from under the mattress.

"I'm gonna send you back to Hell," he said with cold determination, briefly meeting Meg's steely gaze before turning back to find his marked page.

"Exorcizo te, immundissime spiritus, omnis incursio adversario adversarii," he began to read, wasting no time.

Meg snarled, Dean's brown eyes flicking to black in an instant.

"You think you're doing Dean a favour?" Meg spat out, "_He likes this!_ He _likes_ hurting you, making you pay for all the things you've done to him."

Sam continued reading, ignoring her.

Meg gasped and shuddered.

"He hate's you! He's sick of you. Should have stayed at Stanford, Sammy. But no, you have to go get your pretty little girlfriend killed, and then jump back into the hunt. You're a curse, Sam. Everyone around you dies and Dean doesn't want to stick around until it's his turn."

Sam faltered but only for a moment.

"Omne phantasma, omne legio," he continued.

Meg screamed, a long bloodcurdling shriek as she dropped to her knees. Lowering her head, Sam heard her muttering under her breath. He paused to listen. It sounded like Latin. The room shook suddenly and Sam braced himself against the bed, a crack suddenly snaking it's way along the ceiling. He jumped back to his reading, speeding up his words but the crack continued, breaking through the outer circle of the pentagram.

Meg burst forth with the speed of a charging bull, plowing into Sam and throwing his backwards, over the bed.

Sam flipped onto his stomach, frantically searching for his place in the exorcism.

"Praecipio tibi," he gasped out.

Meg, crouching over him on the bed, threw her head back and cried out like a wild animal in pain. Sam cringed at hearing Dean's voice scream like that.

"Sed libera-" was as far as he got into the next line before Meg was on him, tearing the book away and wrapping her hands – Dean's hands – around his neck.

Sam gagged, trying to bring in air but there was none. It felt like his throat was about to collapse under the pressure. He stared up into his brother's face, twisted in malice, trying to claw Dean's hands away. Black spots danced in his vision, but he couldn't die, because if he died then Dean was next and he had to save Dean.

In a burst of adrenaline, Sam bucked forward in an impressive head butt that sent Meg back into the side of the bed. He scrambled for the book, managing to reel off a few more lines of the exorcism before Meg leapt on him, dragging him backwards by his hair.

"You know," Meg breathed in his ear, "I think I'm sick of you now."

A sudden explosion of pain under his left collarbone rocked him and Meg dropped him to the ground.

Sam swayed on his knees, unwillingly letting his gaze drop downwards. He knew it was a knife before he saw it. It wasn't the first time he'd been stabbed – kind of came in the job description – and it probably wouldn't be the last. Sam blinked, remembering where he was as he watched the blood spread slowly across his shirt. Actually, maybe it would be the last…

The book was still next to him.

"Sed libera nos a malo. Immundissime spiritus…"

Meg kicked the book away.

Sam just looked up at her, the demon in his brother's body, stunned. He was so close, he'd almost finished it, almost saved them both. Too late now. His vision began to gray at the edges, Dean's face swam in and out.

There was a muffled crash somewhere beyond his eyesight, near the door. Sam couldn't find the energy to wonder what it was. He supposed it was blood loss that made him think he heard Bobby's voice right before he sunk into the darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

Non Timebo Mala

**A/N: I just want to thank everyone for their awesome reviews, and everyone who put this story on their favourites and story alerts! I've had warm fuzzies for days now.**

**I don't think I write Dean as well as I do Sam, so I hope people aren't disappointed by this chapter, but I did my best.**

Chapter Two

Dean woke with what felt like the worst hangover in the history of hangovers. His head pounded as if something was trying to break it's way out, his chest ached and nausea was clawing its way up his throat. He had no idea where he was, what day it was, or what he'd done last night to warrant this kind of punishment. He hoped he'd had a good time.

"Eurghmmhuuh," he groaned unintelligibly.

"Dean? You awake?"

Huh. Bobby's voice. Wonder where Sam…

Dean sat bolt upright, almost colliding with Bobby, who had been leaning over him.

"Hey, easy!" Bobby ordered.

"Where's Sam?" Dean demanded, his own discomfort forgotten as he frantically searched the room. His gaze landed on the second bed, and he was up and heading towards it faster than even he thought possible.

"He's been in and out," Dean heard Bobby say behind him, "Mostly out."

Sam looked pale. Dean stared down at the still figure in horror, his mind reeling as he connected vague memories to the state his brother was in. Both of Sam's eyes were black, ringed with dark purple bruises; a small gash on his forehead had been expertly stitched, as well as a cut on his lower lip; dark bruises stood out around his neck, and Dean knew without studying them that they'd match up with his hands; thick bandages smothered his chest and more wrapped around his wrists. The shredded remains of a t-shirt lay on the floor at his feet, cut off in haste and thrown away without a second thought.

"I was possessed," Dean forced out. As if that was some kind of excuse…

"Do you remember anything?" Bobby asked gently.

Dean painfully looked back over his memories. He recalled the sudden overwhelming scent of sulfur, a sharp slice across his chest… the sound of Sam's face hitting a countertop, fighting and screaming for control of his body as he watched himself…

"Enough," he said shortly, shaking the thoughts out of his head. He cleared his throat, "How long…?"

Bobby sat down at the small motel table, huffing out a breath. He ran a hand over a large book on the tabletop. Dean barely glanced at it, his eyes fixed on the steady rise and fall of Sam's chest.

"I figure about five weeks. When I couldn't get Sam on the phone… Took me a while to figure out that it wasn't you I'd been talking to."

"Five weeks," Dean echoed in horror. That long? An involuntary shiver ran down his spine. He felt… contaminated, as if the demon had left a permanent dark mark on his soul.

"It was Meg," he spat, the sudden anger making him lightheaded.

Bobby was eyeing him up, "You should lie down. Being possessed for that long…"

But Dean could tell that Bobby knew he wouldn't listen, and before Bobby had even finished talking, he was up and dragging his chair over to Sam's bedside, pushing Dean down in it.

"At least sit down," he grumbled.

Dean gave in easily, not only because Bobby looked almost as tired as he felt, but because he didn't think his legs would have held him up for much longer anyway. He sunk down into the hard chair, burying his face in his hands for a moment, before returning his weary gaze to Sam.

"It's not your fault, Dean," Bobby said softly, demonstrating an uncanny ability at mind reading.

Dean sucked in a breath.

"How did you find us?" he asked, not-to-smoothly changing the subject, but Bobby didn't push.

"Guess demons don't know about GPS." Bobby gave him a humourless smile, "Tracked your cell phone. Got here just in time." He cast a glance at Sam's battered face, "Wish I'd been a lot faster."

Dean shook his head, "No, you did good, Bobby. Thanks, for… uh…" he gestured vaguely around the room, "The exorcism, and Sam…"

"Don't thank me," Bobby replied gruffly, "Sam did most of it. I just jumped in at the end."

Dean turned to Bobby, stunned, "He did? How?"

Last thing he remembered Sam had been bound to the bed, as helpless as he was. Dean quickly shoved the image to the back of his mind.

Bobby shrugged, "Beats me, but he managed it somehow. I'll bet, if Meg hadn't pulled a knife, he would have finished it too."

Dean swung back to look at Sam, panic building, "A knife?! I… She stabbed him?!"

Bobby ran a weary hand over his face, "Calm down. It's okay. I got the wound cleaned and stitched. It wasn't too deep – maybe you had a bit of control back by that point. He lost a fair bit of blood before I could get to him but he'll be alright."

Dean felt anger building again, which may not have been the best idea as the room suddenly swayed around him.

"I'm gonna kill that bitch!" he growled, thumping a fist down on Sam's bed.

"Get in line," a weak voice mumbled.

The rage drained from Dean immediately as he jerked his head up. Sam was blinking groggily at him.

"Hey," Dean said softly, leaning in, "How you feeling?"

"…holy water…" Sam mumbled, rolling his head on the pillow to look past Dean at Bobby.

"What?" Dean asked, brow crinkling, just before a splash a liquid hit him straight in the face.

"Oh," he muttered, wiping his face with a hand as he turned to see Bobby screwing the lid back onto his flask.

"Had to check," Sam murmured sleepily, his eyelids slipping closed again.

While Sam slept Dean and Bobby tried to piece together the puzzle of what had happened. Seeing Sam conscious – barely – had taken the edge off of Dean's worry. Not enough the sleep, as Bobby had half-heartedly suggested, but enough to let him think a bit clearer. The strong coffee Bobby had forced into his hands, obviously accepting defeat in the task of convincing the older Winchester to rest while the younger was injured, helped too.

"I remember a fight. Me and Sam… or Meg and Sam, whatever… and, God!"

"Start from the beginning," Bobby offered helpfully.

Dean shook his head, trying to place his thoughts into an order that made sense. Eventually they managed to figure out that Bobby's estimate of five weeks was about right. It had been five weeks and two days. Meg had moved from motel to motel, switching every few days. Dean remembered – he didn't think he'd ever forget – snatches of an unconscious Sam handcuffed in the Impala ("That bitch drove my car!"), a string of motel rooms, syringes and beatings, screaming silently inside his own head. Everything else was either blank or a blur.

Bobby filled in his side of the story, explaining that after three weeks without a single word from Sam, and then silence from both brothers, he had grown suspicious. For two weeks he had tracked their cell phones, arriving at numerous motels mere hours after they had left, until he finally pulled up in a parking lot next to the Impala. A few quick words with the manager and a flash of a police ID badge had gotten him their room number.

"Meg was on the verge of busting out of you when I came in, just in time to see Sam go down. There were only a few lines of the exorcism left, and I think she must have been pretty surprised to see me – probably got over-confident after five weeks – 'cause I finished it off before she'd even taken a couple of steps. And then I had two unconscious Winchester's to deal with. You boy's sure know how to get yourselves into trouble."

Dean ran a hand through his hair, feeling a little less zombified now, "Yeah, well, trouble follows us round."

Throughout Bobby's story, Dean had had a chance to inspect the room, inspecting the damage to piece the story together. He hadn't talked much to Sam about his own possession by Meg, preferring to forget and not dwell, but the busted Devil's Trap on the ceiling said that perhaps he should have remembered to mention Meg's little party trick. It seemed that Bobby had already made a start of cleaning the floor but Sam's blood still spread a wide stain on the carpet. Dean sat with his back to it, trying not to imagine himself raising a knife to his brother.

God, he wanted out to get out of this room, put the whole damn mess in the Impala's rear view mirror and never ever think about it again, but Sam needed him, and the condition Sam was in right now told him that they wouldn't be moving on for a while.

0000000000000000

Dean knew that they were coming. Despite Sam's repeated assurances that he was okay – which was hardly convincing seeing as he could barely sit up by himself two days after Dean's exorcism – Dean saw the haunted look that appeared in his eyes when he thought Dean wasn't looking, the involuntary flinches when Dean touched him or spoke unexpectedly. Sam had refused pain relief.

"No more drugs," he had said, and the track marks adorning his arm told Dean not to push. Other than that, Sam didn't talk about what had happened.

So of course Dean was expecting the nightmares. He just wasn't entirely prepared for Sam's reaction. Hindsight, of course, told him that he should have been.

Having woken an hour or so earlier from a nightmare of his own, he pushed himself out of bed and padded over to Sam at the first sign of disturbance. He leant over his brother, taking hold of the uninjured shoulder and shaking very lightly.

"Sam, wake up," he whispered.

Sam's eyes shot open with a gasp, widening as they focused on Dean. A fist flew out and caught Dean on the jaw, sending him sprawling. He hit the ground cursing.

"Damn it Sam, it's me!"

Sam blinked at him, confused, then the glaze lifted from his eyes and he took in his surroundings with waking awareness.

"Oh… Shit, I'm sorry, Dean. I didn't…"

"It's okay," Dean muttered, standing up and brushing himself off. "Oh no you don't," he warned as Sam made movements as if to help him, "You stay where you are."

Sam – obedient for once – sunk back down onto the pillows, rolling carefully onto his side.

"I just…"

"Thought it was Meg," Dean finished grimly. "You okay now?"

Sam nodded, resting his head on his arm as Dean plunked himself down on the edge of his bed.

"So," Dean started. Might as well talk about it now. They'd have to some time, and maybe it would be easier in the dark. Maybe. Dean cleared his throat.

"Five weeks, huh?"

Sam's eyebrows creased in confusion, "What?"

"That demon bitch was riding around in me for five weeks," Dean clarified, "Dragging you around with her."

Sam obviously didn't miss the involuntary shiver that worked it's way up his spine at the thought of it.

"Makes you feel violated, doesn't it?" he said.

Dean brushed the topic aside, "Must have been worse for you."

Sam shrugged, then grimaced.

"Careful," Dean admonished automatically, "You'll bust those stitches."

Sam shifted uncomfortably, pressing his face into the pillow for a moment. Dean felt guilt tug in his stomach.

"Would you just take the damn pain meds?" he snapped.

Okay, so that came out rougher than he meant it to, but geez, the kid had to be in a world of pain and he was just too stubborn to do anything about it. But Sam was looking up at him reproachfully.

"Thought you knew what it's like to have no control." Sam rubbed an arm absently, "No, I can't…"

Dean backed down immediately, feeling suitably chagrined.

"Sorry. I just… don't like seeing you like…Jesus," he swore, "I'm so sorry for everything, Sammy. I remember… God, the things I did to you…"

Dean's gaze lingered on the fading bruises and stitches that still adorned Sam's face, visible even in the dim light.

Sam looked back at him wearily.

"After all that time you spent telling me that what I did while possessed wasn't my fault, you're gonna take all the blame now? Kinda hypocritical, Dean."

But it _felt_ like his fault. He felt it when he heard pain in his baby brother's voice; when he saw fear in Sam's eyes; when he looked at the bandages on Sam's torn up wrists and saw himself gleefully clicking handcuffs into place; looked at the track marks and saw himself depressing the plunger of a syringe, watching Sam sink into helpless oblivion. And then there were the blank windows in his memory, when he could have been doing anything – anything – to Sam, and he didn't want to think about what he might have done.

"I stabbed you," Dean said through clenched teeth. The guilt was burning a hole in his stomach.

"I shot you," Sam retorted.

"No, it was…" Dean trailed off.

"Meg," Sam finished, "It was all Meg."

And apparently that was the end of that. Well, Dean figured he could live with that, for now anyway, and besides, even in the darkness Sam didn't look like he could handle much more arguing.

Sam shifted on the bed again, biting his lip and hissing as he put pressure on one of his many wounds. His face screwed up in pain.

"Hey, stop moving so much," Dean ordered gently.

Sam stilled, breathing heavily.

"Hang on a sec."

Dean stood and made his way to the bathroom, returning with two painkillers – the good ones – and a glass of water. He held them out to Sam.

Sam took a moment to focus, then –

"Dean, no. I don't-"

"Sam," Dean cut his brother off, "Nothing bad is gonna happen, I promise. You need these."

Sam looked up at him apprehensively, clearly too tired to argue but not happy with Dean's idea. Dean wondered briefly whether he was taking advantage but pushed the thought to the side. Big brothers are supposed to take advantage, especially when it comes to getting little brothers to take their medicine.

Finally, Sam reached out and took the pills.

"Don't go anywhere," he warned.

"I wont," Dean promised, as he helped Sam sit up so he could swallow, then he took the glass of water back and set it down on the nightstand.

When he looked back, his brother's eyes were already half closed. Dean took Sam's hand in his, careful not to disturb the injuries on his wrist.

"It's okay now. I'm not gonna let anything happen to you."

Sam blinked slowly up at him. "Are you sure you're not still possessed?" he mumbled.

Dean frowned, "What?"

Sam's gaze traveled downwards, "You realize you're holding my hand, right?"

Dean grinned, shaking his head.

"Shut up and go to sleep, Sam."

And Sam obeyed, letting his eyes close with a sigh. The pain lines faded from his forehead.

Dean sat on the edge of his brother's bed, watching Sam sleep. They still had a long way to go before they both recovered from their latest ordeal, but if Sam could let go and trust Dean to watch out for him while he let his guard down, maybe Dean could let himself heal too, let go of the guilt and anger.

Dean stood and moved to his own bed, settling himself down under the covers, his eyes automatically taking stock of his brother. The bruises were fading, the dark purples slowly turning to light greens and yellows. A week or two and Sam would probably be able to be seen in public without turning heads. The bandages on his wrists and ankles could probably be removed in another week or so, but the stab wound under his collar bone would have Sam laid up for a while.

So maybe Dean wouldn't let go of all the anger. Winchester's are good at two things – killing evil sons of bitches, and revenge. And no one hurt Dean's little brother and got away with it.

For now though, they were safe. Soon the open road would be calling them and, together, they would move on.

000000000

A/N: I'm working on a new story already, but it will be a long chapter story instead of my usual one shots, so it'll probably take me some time before any of it's posted. I like to have the whole thing written out in a rough draft before I start posting, in case I lose interest, and it will be a different sort of story than the one's I usually write. Rest assured however, that there will be plenty of Limp Sam and Protective Dean. I'm quite excited about it, so I hope you'll all stay tuned and watch this space.

Many thanks, Menthol Pixie.


End file.
